Work Text:
Arthur is not pleased with this arrangement.
He's only been working with Cobb for a few months but they're already very close -- Arthur appreciates Cobb's dedication to their business, and though he doesn't know all the details of Cobb's background or why exactly he's into illegal extraction, Arthur trusts him to make competent decisions... which is precisely why Arthur feels intense distaste at the fact that he's currently in a plain-looking, somewhat shabby hotel room, staring at the curve of Eames's back as he shaves his neck in the washroom.
Money is tight, apparently, and it only made sense to double up on hotel rooms to save costs. Arthur had asked why Cobb got his own room, then, but the withering glower he received had forced him into a hasty retreat.
Arthur doesn't even like Eames. Eames is loud even when he isn't saying anything, and his print selections cause Arthur great distress. He apparently has a penchant for not wearing clothing whenever possible, or perhaps he just often finds himself in situations where shirts were best left off, because Arthur has only been in his company for a total of about ten hours and he's already seen more half-naked Eames than he thought possible.
However, Arthur is a professional. He has to admit, this isn't the worst thing he's done for a job. He strips down to his briefs and climbs into bed, and tries to ignore the lumpy mattress. They'll be out of there soon enough.
##
It turns out Cobb is a big fat liar, to go along with being a thief. Renting a workshop is too expensive right now, he says, so they'll have to work out of the hotel, which means they'll be there for at least another two weeks or so, until the job's done.
Arthur is most displeased indeed.
Eames, on the other hand, has no qualms about the change in plans, and settles into their shared hotel room quickly. It's not long before there are clothes dropped haphazardly and globs of toothpaste in the sink, and Arthur thinks this must be what slowly going insane feels like.
The worst part is that Eames is as pleasant as ever, and seems fairly committed to the task at hand. They spend the daylight hours in Cobb's hotel room, Eames and Cobb discussing the nurse Eames is going to forge, and Arthur typing and researching on his laptop amid a spread of documents and photos. Eames barely speaks to Arthur during the day, besides things related to the job. Arthur finds it infuriating for reasons he hasn't yet been able to grasp.
The issue comes to a temporary head when Arthur returns to his room one evening after spending a couple hours at the rather squalid hotel bar with Cobb, and finds Eames sprawled across the bed with his jeans pulled down to his knees, jerking himself off languidly with his left hand and pulling his own hair with his right. Arthur feels himself flush immediately and he clears his throat a little louder than necessary.
Eames barely flinches, though his eyes open and he drops his bottom lip from between his teeth.
"Eames, jesus... Get a room or something." Arthur tries to remain composed, and turns to busy himself with the coffee maker.
"Mm, I've already got one," Eames drawls, and Arthur has no idea how he can make something so innocuous sound so filthy.
"Can you just... not do that on the bed, please?" Arthur clears his throat again and waits until he feels Eames brush by him and disappear into the washroom before he dares turn back around and let out a breath. He barely resists the urge to remove the sheets from the bed -- only because he doesn't know where that mattress has been -- and climbs under the covers. He tells himself it's the earlier scotch's fault that he's not as disgusted by walking in on Eames wanking as he should be, then drifts off into sleep to the sound of low panting coming from the next room.
##
Evidently, Eames took Arthur's request to not whack off on the bed as an invitation to whack off in the washroom every night. At first, Arthur ignored the low grunts and gasps and telltale sounds of skin against skin, and just accepted that he would fall asleep half hard, but now he's starting to think Eames is being loud on purpose. The walls in the hotel are paper-thin, and Eames must be leaning right up against the tiles in the other room, because it sounds like he's right beside Arthur's head.
Arthur will not give in to his duplicitous body's demands. He reminds himself that Eames is a co-worker and leaves his mess all over the hotel room and is dismissive of Arthur's ideas regarding the job and has nice eyes and an incredible ass and shit, Arthur isn't going to last much longer if Eames doesn't stop making those filthy noises.
It doesn't help that his brain keeps feeding him images of Eames spread out across the bed, hand around his cock and face flushed red. Arthur squirms around under the blankets, but can't get comfortable. He's painfully hard and Eames is somehow still going -- it sounds like he's rutting against the wall or something, because Arthur can hear low thumps every so often, alongside the soft groaning. He grumbles, frustrated, and pulls a pillow over his head to try and block out the infuriating noises.
##
Arthur's resolve crumbles beneath him when he hears Eames whimper his name weakly from the washroom a few nights later, amid the moaning and gasping Arthur's quickly becoming accustomed to.
He scrambles to the side table, hoping to find a sidearm so he can end his carnal suffering once and for all, but all he finds is a pair of Eames's briefs stuffed in the drawer for some reason, and decides that's just as well.
He hurriedly shoves his sweatpants down over his hips and wraps Eames's underwear around his cock. He's pretty sure this is all sorts of wrong, but he's also pretty sure Eames is acutely aware of what he's been doing to Arthur, mentally, for the past week and a half, so he doesn't feel so bad. He's already achingly hard and starting to lose brainpower, and Eames is still making fervent noises next door.
It's not difficult for Arthur to imagine Eames between his legs, hot breath against his thighs and stubble prickling his skin. When he'd first met Eames just a few weeks ago, he'd taken careful mental notes on his appearance, voice, immediately apparent mannerisms, etc, but recently, Arthur's been overly perceptive of the way Eames's lips look when he's talking or thinking or smiling or doing anything, really. Arthur knows those lips so well, he could probably forge them in a dream if he wanted.
Right now, though, all he's thinking about are those lips trailing wet kisses atop his knees and across his hips and up his cock. The friction of Eames's briefs is maddening and Arthur has to muffle a low groan into his pillow. He can still hear Eames moaning in the washroom, despite the blood rushing past his ears, and he rolls over and props himself up, knees pressing dents into the mattress.
He pictures Eames under him, writhing and moaning those sounds into his ear as they grind together, skin flushed and slick with sweat. His eyes are screwed shut but he can see Eames behind his eyelids, whimpering his name against his neck as Arthur fucks him into the mattress. It doesn't take long before he's coming into the fabric of Eames's briefs, sputtering a string of obscenities into the blanket.
It takes a few moments for Arthur to come back to himself, and he hikes up his sweatpants and tosses the sticky underwear off the side of the bed for Eames to find later -- it's his own damn fault for sounding so appealing when he masturbates blatantly, Arthur tells himself. He melts into the sheets and reminds himself that the job is only a couple days away, then they can leave this hotel and Arthur will be free from Eames's inadvertent teasing, hopefully forever.
If Eames has an extra-giant grin on his face when he slips into bed later, Arthur doesn't notice.